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It was simply scandalous. All that the mask said, all that it felt for mankind was a certain superb, divine detachment and disdain. If I met a woman in the street and she looked at me with the face of that mask that would be its meaning.
But to return to the dinner party. Having demolished the art pundit I felt my reputation soar. I became more than just someone spending his holidays with the Minister of Culture. The white American couple—especially the wife—practically hung on my every word. They wanted to know whether I had trained in Britain, what I had read at the University, what I taught at the Anata Grammar School, had I been to the United States, what did I think of Americans? etc. etc.
But the best story of that evening came from the Negro writer. He told us how a white American had once come up to his lunch table at the International Hotel which, as everyone knows, is a kind of international mart for the sale to our people of all kinds of foreign wares, from ideologies to tractors. This white American came up and said, full of respect:
“May I join you, sir?”
“Sure,” replied the other.
“What do you think of the Peace Corps?”
“I’ve nothing against it. One of my daughters is in it.”
“You American?”
“Sure. I came over. . . .”
I thought this was good. I could see the other man promptly excusing himself and searching other tables for authentic Africans.
When dinner was over the American Negro offered to drop me off and save Jean the trouble but she wouldn’t hear of it, much to my relief I must say. She said she had promised the Minister to deliver me personally safe and sound at his doorstep and in any case she wanted a bit of fresh air before turning in.
And so the others left—almost in a bunch. “I guess we better be going,” said Jean, clasping her hands above her head and stretching.
“But we’ve hardly said a word to each other,” I said. Jean went and put on a record, a long-play highlife and we began to dance. I must say she had learned to do the highlife well except that like many another foreign enthusiast of African rhythm she tended to overdo the waist wiggle. I don’t say I found it unpleasant—quite on the contrary; I only make a general point, which I think is interesting. It all goes back to what others have come to associate us with. And let it be said that we are not entirely blameless in this. I remember how we were outraged at the University to see a film of breast-throwing, hip-jerking, young women which a neighbouring African state had made and was showing abroad as an African ballet. Jean probably saw it in America. But whatever the case her present effort though pleasing and suitable in the circumstances was by no means good highlife which in essence might carry the same message, but not in this heavy, unsubtle, altogether unsophisticated way.
While we danced I had a quick lesson in psychology. Apparently Jean had noticed while we talked after dinner that I was shaking my legs, which meant that I wanted so badly to go to bed with some woman.
“Was it me or Elsie you wanted?”
“Elsie?”
“Yes, the American couple—Elsie Jackson.”
“Oh, I see. No, it wasn’t her at all. Good Lord, no. It was you.” Which was true.
Actually the leg-shaking business was entirely news to me, the interpretation of it, I mean. As far as I could remember I had always done it and when I was a little boy Mama used to rebuke me for courting epilepsy.
I don’t remember whether we danced more than one number on the LP—I very much doubt it. What I remember clearly was the sudden ringing of the bedside telephone. If someone had tiptoed up the stairs in the dark and stuck a knife in my back it couldn’t have hit me more.
“Don’t move,” commanded Jean, bracing me firmly from below with a surprisingly strong pair of arms. I obeyed.
Then with me and all on her she began to wriggle on her back towards the telephone.
She picked up the receiver and called her name. Had she just taken holy communion and been returning to her pew her manner couldn’t have appeared more calm and relaxed.
“Hi, Elsie. . . . No, you’re welcome. . . . I’m glad you enjoyed it. I got him home all right . . . I was just getting back . . .”
She hung up and put all her suppressed anger in calling Elsie a bitch at which
we both convulsed with laughter.
“All she wants to know is if you’re still here.”
“Do you think she knows?”
“I don’t think so and don’t care.”
Later, much later, we went down hand in hand to the kitchen for Jean to make coffee. I didn’t mind drinking it then.
